


Agape

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, F/M, Lady Hawke, Painter Fenris, Renaissance AU, Renaissance Era, Steamy love affair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8590168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: The renowned artist Fenris is commissioned to paint the Lady Hawke's portrait.Renaissance AU. 
“I see you have no mask,” is all she says.“Forgive me, my Lady, I feel I have nothing to hide,” he tells her.“That suggests that you feel I do,” she says. Her wrist moves slightly, the mask turning like the hand of a clock, revealing the sun beneath. She keeps one side of her face still covered by that glittering gold, but the other half is warm and inviting.  As quickly as it comes, the clouds cover it once again. He is not among the privileged few but she has given him a taste. He wants more.





	1. Venus of Urbino

**Author's Note:**

> I look for you every nightfall  
> I search all my dreams  
> In my mind you'll always be shining  
> An [emerald in the moon glow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vSEdPqU2mI)

He sees a ghost whose skin is porcelain. She cuts through the crowd effortlessly, waltzing around people, moving with the lightest of steps. Her mask is gold and glittering, but it cannot hide her bright blue eyes and her long dark lashes. It does not hide her impossibly red lips. Gold earrings dangle down, bouncing against her as she turns to talk to someone. She smirks and her hold on the masks stick falters. She moves it downwards, the mask touching against her chest. Freckles cover her face like stars, cheeks pink with her laughter.

He raises the glass to his lips, takes a desperate sip as he leans against the pillar. She wears a single braid, wrapped around like a crown, the rest of her dark locks spilling down her back. She’s made of red and gold, dress flowing around her feet. Violins sing their song, cellos working in perfect harmony. The musicians work to make their art heard over the noise of the crowd. He doesn’t hear them for a different reason. He’s too busy watching her, tracking her as she drifts from person to person.

The mask moves back to her face as she talks, and he understands that it is a guard. With those she is comfortable, the mask is removed. The full pleasure of her face is only for the privileged few. He’s startled by a presence at his side, bumbling into him, and an overflowing goblet in his hands. “Fenris,” he says, his brow glistening with sweat, his mask tight in his other hand, “you should be out in the crowd!” Fenris raises his glass back to his lips, his eyes scanning the crowd, unable to find her again.

“There are a few people I’d like you to talk to,” Anso says, “it will be easy to sell your talent.” Anso lingers at his side, hands shaking as he downs gulps of wine. He intends to be as drunk as possible by the time the night ends. Fenris feels no such urge. Anso slips away, wanders the hall. The musicians keep playing, their fingers beginning to ache, their lungs burning. People keep dancing, candles burning and servants gossiping. It’s easy to lose time in this place, lost in the imagery and the marvel.

It’s a palace made of marble and stone, white rock and dark wood. Banners of the finest cloth, rugs beaten and beautiful. Statues carved thin, detail flecked even in the folds of their lips. He stops time in between breath, keeping the scene in his mind’s eye. She would be at the center of this painting, that ghost of porcelain, and her lips would be the only true color. Her eyes would be the focal, looking at you as you looked at her. He buries himself in this thought, does not notice Anso has returned until he speaks.

“Ah, here he is, right where I left him. My Lady Lucilius, might I introduce Fenris Rabiria?” He nearly drops the glass in his hands. Before him, beside Anso, stands the ghost. There’s a curl of a smile on her lips, and she holds steady the stick of the mask as she keeps it before her face. He reaches for her hand, taking it in his, pressing his lips to it as he bows.

“A pleasure, my Lady,” Fenris says as he straightens. That smile again, quirking on her face as her hand drops back to her side. She studies him, glancing up and down. He suddenly feels every flaw keenly. From boot to doublet, his lack of wealth is evident. He is not as gaudy as the other men in the room, with their bright colors and soft materials. He is clothed in black, in things well worn. He has heard the comments about it before – a man lost, in a place meant for his betters.

“I see you have no mask,” is all she says.

“Forgive me, my Lady, I feel I have nothing to hide,” he tells her.

“That suggests that you feel I do,” she says. Her wrist moves slightly, the mask turning like the hand of a clock, revealing the sun beneath. She keeps one side of her face still covered by that glittering gold, but the other half is warm and inviting. As quickly as it comes, the clouds cover it once again. He is not among the privileged few but she has given him a taste. He wants more.

“I’ve seen your work before,” she says from behind that mask, “you’ve done a portrait of my dear friend, Prince Sebastian Vael.” Fenris remembers the man. He is happy to be accounted as one of the Prince’s friends as well. He felt welcome in Starkhaven, the Prince more kin to him than any other man or servant. “Anso and I were discussing having a portrait of myself done. He suggested that you would be perfect.” All at once, Fenris feels the urge to either shake or kiss the drunken fool.

“I’d like to make certain of your perfection myself,” she says. She extends her hand to him. “Dance with me.” He takes her hand instantly and she leads them both to the floor. Their hands stay close together as they circle one another, his gaze never leaving hers. The other dancers crash away to fade in the distance, the music an echo, her breathing as loud as thunder to him.

She attends these parties because it is expected of her. She carries a weight upon her shoulders but she keeps her back straight and her head held high. From the low-born to the old nobility, everyone plays into the games. They keep their masks on and they wear their finest pearls. Before her is a man with no mask, and the greenest eyes she’s ever seen. They look at her underneath dark brows, white hair.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before,” she says to him. He has one arm folded at his back, while the other is by hers. They do not touch, but he is so close, his fingers just there, able to reach out and take her wrist if he wanted to. He keeps a serious face, a statue all his own made of olive stone. A square jawline and a nose perfectly carved. She’d think him metal and gravel if not for the sudden turn at his mouth.

“No, my Lady.” They turn to the music, hands switching effortlessly, his arm around her waist. The tempo increases and his hand splays on her back. Brilliant, bright, dazzling, he watches the curve of her exposed throat lead down to unmarked skin. She wears no necklace, unlike the other ladies, she being all the jewelry needed. “I find I do not fit in.” She chuckles.

The mask is slipping, the stick sliding down in her more relaxed grip. So close he can see the color she lines her eyes with, the kohl upon her lids. He thinks he can count every freckle. “Might I tell you a secret, Ser Fenris?” The smile spreads across her face. “I don’t think I fit too well here either.”

“That’s true,” he tells her, “you are the most beautiful woman here. You put all others to shame.” She looks at him for a moment, her eyes wide before she throws back her head and laughs. The mask bounces against her chest as her arm shakes with the laughter. They move to the side, away from the dancers, and she steps close to him. Her fingers play with the laces on his doublet, before she looks up at him shyly.

“The artist reveals himself to be a charmer as well,” she says. He fears that she might have found him too bold. Instead she gives him a sly smile. “Consider me charmed.” She looks up at him through those dark lashes of hers, her hand still upon his chest. Her lips are parted slightly and he cannot look away. It is she who moves first, her arm slipping into his as they walk back to Anso. He beams at them, his mustache wet with wine.

“I believe you were quite right Anso,” she says as her arm slips from Fenris. Her grip tightens on the stick in her hand, the mask once again upon her face. “I simply must have him for my portrait. Are you available late this week?” She directs the question at Fenris, but it is Anso who blurts out an answer.

“Yes! He is!” Fenris watches as her eyebrows raise beneath the mask.

“Oh? And are you his tongue, dear Anso?” A smirk makes its way across her face. Fenris chuckles into the hand he covers his mouth with. Anso shrugs and shuffles on his feet, a sheepish grin on his face. Her eyes flick from Anso back to Fenris.

“This week. I expect to see you at my estate. Anso can give you the address. I will be quite cross if you do not come,” Lady Lucilius says. She leans forward, her free hand on Fenris’s arm. The mask slips to the side as she presses her lips to his cheek. It’s only for a moment, this closeness. Exhaling on his skin, lips wet and warm. The soft sound of the kiss. The smile again, the mask back on, she turns and slips away. She is a ghost once more, disappearing into the crowd. His heart is still racing.

Fenris cannot sleep. He tosses and turns in that stiff bed of his, the blanket thrown over his shoulders. The breeze filters through the windows, rolling gently against the curtains. The sounds of the city drift inside, late laughter and low words. He moves from bed to desk, striking a match and lighting a candle. Charcoal stains his hands, and he works at the parchment feverishly by flickering light. His face is so close that his nose almost touches carefully constructed shapes and shades. By the time he’s finished, there’s a dark smudge at the tip of his nose, on his cheeks.

He leans back in the chair, charcoal dropping from his fingers. The candle burns low, almost extinguished. _She_ stares at him from the page, mask removed, and a smile at her lips. All others are simply shadowy figures, none worthy of a full depiction. He would paint this woman even if it was the last thing he did. The finest colors, the fullest red, the brightest blue. Pink in her cheeks, ribbons in raven hair. Gold freckle flecks, a dress of lavender and lilies.

Fenris acquires the address from Anso the next day. He wakes him in the midst of a hangover, Anso squinting and moaning as he murmurs out instructions. He waits a few days after that, until the last of what could be considered the end of the week. He wears his finest shirt and doublet, pants and boots. They will still not match the finery that he knows she has.

The Lucilius estate is not overly large but it wasn’t modest either. Nestled in the heart of the city, it boasted of many large windows, fine detail etched into the stone, archways of marble. There are flowers on the sill, carefully attended to. He uses the gold knocker on the door, rapping against dark wood. “Yes? May I help you?” asks the woman who opens the door. A servant, in working clothes, dark hair tied back underneath a bonnet.

“I’m here to see Lady Lucilius. I was invited. Fenris Rabira,” Fenris says. The woman gives him a long, piercing stare, before stepping aside and opening the door fully. She closes it behind him.

“Stay here,” she says, leaving him standing in the foyer. She races through hallways, holding up her skirts with a smile on her face. She skids into the study with only a brief warning knock. “He’s here!” She blurts out. Her face reddens and she coughs before standing straight. She makes a brief curtsy before she’s up and grinning again. “Sorry. My lady, the painter Fenris Rabira is here to see you.” She pauses before she continues. “He’s as handsome as you described him,” she titters.

“Makers breath,” Lady Lucilius says, closing the book she was in the midst of reading with a snap. “How do I look Isabela?” Isabela moves forward, tucking hair back neatly, arranging the necklace to sit neatly on her chest.

“Gorgeous, my lady,” Isabela says. Her cheeks redden and she keeps the book tight in her hands.

“Do send him in,” she says. Isabela grins again with a nod, a leaving curtsy, before she is racing back down the halls towards the foyer. Fenris is standing in front of a painting, his hands clasped behind his back, head titled as he examines it.

“If you’d follow me,” she says, and his head immediately swings in her direction, startled out of his reverie. Their steps echo in the hallway, past windows that show the courtyard and many closed doors. She leads him to the only opened one. Lady Lucilius is sitting on a couch, a book in her hands. The sunlight pours through the window behind her, illuminating her fully. She is bathed in a robe of gold light, a halo all her own.

Bookshelves line the walls, and they cover every desk and table. There are paintings here as well, landscapes and still life – not a portrait to be seen. She smiles when he enters, and he immediately takes a bow. He does not see the wink Isabela gives her before she leaves and closes the door. “Lady Lucilius. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” Fenris says.

“Please,” she says, putting the book to the side and rising to her feet, “call me Marian.” She’s in a dress of dark blue and darker red, the sleeves puffy and skirt long. There’s a ruby around her neck, earrings that dangle. She’s wearing a circlet around her bound hair, like a small crown. He feels his breath being snatched away once again.

“Lady Lucilius, I –” She smiles and chuckles.

“If you insist on such formalities then at least call me Lady Hawke,” she says. “Lucilius is a recent acquisition and I’m not quite used to it.” She’s still smiling as she closes the gap between them.

“Lady Hawke, then,” he says. “I thought we might discuss the details of what you’d like done. It will help me in choosing what paints and colors would be most suitable.” She chuckles, fingers playing with the bracelet around her wrist.

“My, my. Aren’t we all business? You want to be done with me so soon?” Red lips quirking, blue eyes full of mischief. He’d like to wrap his arms around her and devour her whole. “Won’t you at least stay and sup with me tonight?”

“I would be happy to,” he says. She beams, and her arm slips into his.

“Wonderful!” she steers him out of the room, towards the courtyard. “I hope you don’t mind talking in the garden. I find everywhere else just so stiff.” Her gardens are lush and orderly, carefully trimmed and maintained. She guides him to a stone bench, where her arm slips from his to arrange her skirts before sitting. He takes his place beside her.

“Tell me how Anso managed to drag you to such a dreadful party,” she says. Her teeth play with her bottom lip, as though she fears she’s asking questions too personal. He can see the way her hair is carefully curled, carefully braided. It’s unruly however, stray strands escaping their perfectly crafted prison to float by her face. He would love to remove the circlet, the braid, run his fingers through and through.

“He insists it’s a shame I’m not more well-known. He’s taken it upon himself to make me famous,” Fenris tells her. She laughs, resting her hands together in her lap. His white hair is long, framing his face. And those brows. Such piercing green eyes. She feels herself being laid utterly bare before them. It’s then that she spies it. A single mark, high on his cheek.

She chuckles as she reaches forward, thumb at his skin, rubbing at his cheek. He’s startled at her touch but dares not move. “Charcoal?” She says, looking at the black moved from his cheek to her thumb. His hand chases her touch, warmer where her fingers were. “Someone was busy before coming here, hmm?” He simply agrees. He does not tell her of the recent sketches, all of her. They talk for most of the afternoon, taking delight in every bit of laughter, every smile.

Isabela calls them to dinner, a spread of meat and vegetables. Instead of taking a seat at the head of the table, Hawke seats herself beside him. “Tell me about your work. Painting has always fascinated me,” she says as she cuts into her chicken and takes a bite with a silver spoon.

It’s a subject he can ramble on about. He reminds himself to eat as he talks. Hawke’s eyes never once leaves his, paying rapt attention. “Many still use tempera, but I prefer oil. There’s a greater variety of colors there, better able to fill the detail. Especially for portraits. You need the right shade to convey someone’s thoughts.”

“What will my thoughts be when you paint me?” She asks, fork abandoned on her plate, smiling gently at him. He goes a sudden shade of red, embarrassed by his own sudden thoughts. He’d like her to be thinking of him most of all.

“I – I’ll have to see when I do paint you,” is what he says instead. Isabela knocks at the door, gives Hawke a low curtsey and a nod. She immediately rises to her feet and goes to the door. Fenris watches as she speaks to someone just out of his line of sight. Her hands are behind her back, and she’s playing with her fingers in almost a nervous smile.

“Yes, he’s here. The one I told you about. Of course,” she turns and gives Fenris a smile as the other person moves to stand beside Hawke. “Fenris Rabira, I’d like you to meet my husband – Lord Danarius Lucilius.”


	2. La Belle Ferronnière

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gaze moves from her ankle to her face as his hands slowly skim up her leg, slipping underneath her dress. She feels her breath hitch, a flush infecting her cheeks as his fingertips find bare skin. He slips fingers into the top of her stocking, pulls it down slowly and carefully. His hand follows the line of her leg, and gooseflesh follows his touch.

If she is porcelain then her husband is iron and arsenic. His smile to Fenris is insincere, just as much as Hawke’s is to Danarius. He’s much older than Hawke, written in the lines around his mouth, the permanent crease between his brows. There are dark circles under his eyes, a cruel malice contained inside grey irises. He’s barely spoken and yet Fenris already hates him. He tries to tell himself it isn’t jealousy. Danarius tears into his food like a beast, knife scraping against the plate as he cuts his steak.

“Your work has garnered much talk. I’m amazed no one has offered you their patronage,” he says, sliding a carrot into his mouth. He sits at one end of the table, while Hawke has moved to the other. Fenris remains in the middle, darting glances at her while she speaks to him. She has her fork in hand, picking at food without really eating it. She glances up at him shyly when he speaks.

“Offers have been made, but I have declined all. I enjoy the freedom of choosing my clients. Having a patron would limit me. How could I only paint one person when there are so many interesting faces in the world?” he says. She gifts him with a pleased smile and raises the glass of wine to her lips. Danarius smirks at his answer.

“How curious.” He chews with vigor, before leaning back in his chair and dropping his fork to his plate. “In any case, you must begin the portrait of my wife immediately. It’s a shame she hasn’t been painted before,” Danarius says. Fenris takes a sick pleasure in knowing he will be the first to pain her. The first to brush strokes of the delicate curve of her neck. To flourish her cheeks with color, to touch lips with the deepest red. To know the fierceness of her gaze, to capture the thoughts in her head. He would make her think of him and nothing else. They lock eyes from across the table. He fears she already knows what he’s thinking.

“Of course, my lord. I am eager to begin,” Fenris says, leaving Hawke’s gaze to look at Danarius. He lets out a pleased huff as he settles the knife beside his plate. He adjusts it until it is perfectly straight. He moves restlessly in his chair, his fingers tapping an uneasy rhythm against the table.

“Whatever you have need of, we will be happy to supply.”

“That is most generous of you. Thank you.” Another pleased huff. He reaches for the glass of wine, down it quickly. It hits the table with a loud chink. He pulls the napkin from his lap, dabs it across his mouth before throwing it down upon his plate.

“Our doors are open to you as needed. Please, allow my wife to show you out,” Danarius says, putting a firm end to the evening. He rises from his seat immediately, disappearing into the corridor. Fenris only barely catches the roll of Hawke’s eyes. He stands only when she does, and she moves for him immediately. Her arm entwines around his, her other hand resting open it. Shoulder to shoulder, they walk to the foyer.

“You must let me come with you to the market,” she says, leaning her head close to his. “I want to learn all your secrets.” He knows she means his paintings, but he still clears his throat and flushes slightly. He dares not turn his head, to look towards her. He knows he will see the perfect line of her face, those red lips, and the square of her dress framing the swell of her breasts. Only when they reach the door does she remove herself from him. Only, her hand lingers on his, holds it so loosely.

“I do mean to be your patron one day,” she tells him. “I’m not going to buy you, not like that. I will earn it. With me, you can paint anything you like.” She gives his hand a small squeeze. How could he explain that painting simply was for him? She was the first to give him a taste of desire, of need, want to put brush against canvas, an appetite to put brush against skin. Her hand slips from his and he immediately forms a fist.

“Tomorrow. I’ll meet you in the market at terce. By the bakery, I think. I’ve been craving something sweet,” she says. A smile curls around the edges of her mouth as she looks at him.

“I look forward to it,” he says, giving her a small but neat bow. Isabela is at her side the moment she hears the door close.

“He makes a good match for you,” she says to Hawke. She shakes her head in return.

“It would be inappropriate. It’s a flirtation. Nothing more.”

“Everyone has a lover,” Isabela tells her, with a shrug of her shoulders.

Hawke dresses in the morning with some strange sense of cheer. She’d been invited out many times before, by a multitude of people. Never before had she looked on those outings with the same excitement she shows here. There’s pink around her cheeks, a persistent smile. Pearl earrings. Red on her lips to match the red of her dress. An overcoat of deep purple, buttons gold. Stockings white, boots laced, she picks up black gloves from her desk as she leaves her room. Her footsteps carry lightly, fabric of her dress moving against stone floors. She heads to the kitchen first, intending to steal some small muffin or a slice of bread.

She stops outside the door, listening to the giggling within. A deeper voice accompanies it. Danarius’s voice. Hawke slams open the door, and the kitchen maid who was once shy under his attentions now snaps away from him. Danarius, for his part, look bored – almost disappointed – as his stance straightens. “Wife.”

“Husband,” Hawke answers, the cold chilly in her voice. The maid pretends herself busy in a corner, hands kneading dough. She steels herself as she looks at Danarius, who leans against a counter. “I’m going out today.”

“Goodbye then,” Danarius says. Hawke frowns, her back straight and the line of her shoulders squared. Her knuckles are white as she grips the gloves. With one last glare at the both of them, she turns on her heel, marching to the front door. She leaves the house still hungry and unwilling to go back. Tevinter streets are busy with those going about their business, paying no mind to the single woman walking down the streets. Anger carries her footsteps, and she shoves her hands into the gloves to stop herself from strangling them. Everyone has a lover.

She makes her way through the market, around crowd and puddle alike, navigating uneven ground. There’s only the barest amount of surprise when her foot sinks into an unseen hole, her ankle twisting painfully. She’s falling sideways with a gasp, until arms reach out to catch her. “Lady Hawke!” Fenris, a hand on her arm and the other at her back, helping her stand.

“I must say, Ser Fenris, you have quite excellent timing,” Hawke says gratefully. He chuckles under his breath as his hand slips from her back. She winces as her weight falls fully onto her foot and she reaches for Fenris’s arm to help her stand steady.

“Are you hurt?” She doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone look at her the way he does. There’s concern in the frown of his brows, worry in the line of his mouth. His hand is at her back again, and he steps forward as he pulls her in, allowing her to lean on him. There’s warmth in his touch, a sort of gentleness in the way he holds her.

“A foolish injury, I’m afraid. I seem to have twisted my ankle,” she admits. He looks around for a moment, then seems to resign himself to something.

“My home is nearby. We should have you sitting.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary – ” but Fenris is smiling, taking her by the hand, and she finds herself suddenly agreeing. She allows him to guide her through the crowd, the busy streets, and her hand in his, his arm tight around her waist. She barely feels the hurt in each step as she studies the hair tucked behind his ear, the barest hint of stubble around his jaw. His eyes are so green, a lost world nestled inside both of them. He keeps facing forward, and she wonders at the thoughts hiding inside of him.

He leads her inside an apartment building, helps her climb stairs to his home. She gasps the instant he opens the door. Paintings are everywhere, covering every wall, canvas upon canvas of color. They are propped against his desk, piled on the floor, leaning against his bed. It is a small room, but well-used, well-loved. “I would have cleaned properly if I knew I were to have company,” he apologizes.

“This is magnificent,” she says as he guides her to his bed. She winces as she takes a seat, one hand against her injured leg. “Please, don’t apologize.” There are mostly portraits here, and she cannot help but stare at them all. All people, all genders, all things hidden behind their painted gaze. An old man with laughter in his jowls. A young girl with seriousness in her brow. Fenris bends down before her on one knee, and moves questioningly towards her.

Behind is desk is a single window, opened slightly. Upon the sill sits a small vase with a single yellow daisy. Charcoal stains the parchment upon his desk, papers weighted down with a rock. The portraits of her are obscured by books, and she does not see them. “May I?” He asks, gesturing at her ankle. She looks down at him, looking up at her, and slowly nods. Hands upon her leg, placing her heel upon his thigh. Working at the lacings, pulling them apart, slipping off her boot.

His gaze moves from her ankle to her face as his hands slowly skim up her leg, slipping underneath her dress. She feels her breath hitch, a flush infecting her cheeks as his fingertips find bare skin. He slips fingers into the top of her stocking, pulls it down slowly and carefully. His hand follows the line of her leg, and gooseflesh follows his touch. He rolls the stocking over the ball of her foot, keeps a hand against her ankle.

He has to raise her skirts slightly to see it, exposing unblemished skin, a creamy ivory the likes of which he’s never seen before. He quickly finds the hurt that lingers. “It will bruise, I believe, but nothing further,” he says. She’s half surprised when he presses fingers at her ankle, moving in massaging circles, working the ache from her. Hawke’s heart nearly falls out of her chest as he bends forward, presses a kiss to her ankle. Any hurt which the massage might have missed is suddenly swept away. He locks eyes with her as he pulls away, piercing green that strikes something deep inside her.

He is careful to pull her stocking back up, and she realizes she would do much to keep his hands upon her. He is gentle with her, all the sweetness she craves, a fire burning in her belly. He places the boot back upon her foot, does up the lacings neatly. “Fenris,” she says, reaching forward, catching his wrist before he can stand. “Danarius leaves Tevinter tomorrow. For work. Would you like to begin the portrait then?”

When he stands, he pulls her with him. Her hands in his, thumb running over her knuckles. He raises her hand to his lips, plants a kiss. “It would be my pleasure,” he tells her. He slips away from her grasp for a moment, moves into a room where she does not follow. Instead, she walks to his desk, to peer out of the window. It looks down upon the bustle of the market, a variety of people, and a plethora of faces just outside his reach. She smiles at the flower, reaches out to touch petals. The wind sweeps inside the room, rustles papers.

She looks down curiously, moving the rock from the stack. One by one she pulls back charcoal portraits. Her hand stills when she sees herself staring back at her. She can hear his footsteps coming back, quickly replaces the paper and the rock. She hopes that the outside does not betray the erratic beating of her heart. He brings her a muffin, flourishes with a mock bow as he presents it to her. She laughs as she takes a bite. He smiles as he moves a thumb against her mouth, brushing away crumbs.

She feels out of place in the market as they move from shop to shop, and he speaks to each merchant. He speaks quickly and excitedly to her as he shows her different vials. Crushed mixtures of color, a storm only he can unleash. His eyes shine as he speaks, and she is caught by his passion. He is engrossed in the love of this thing, and she only loves him more for it. “I apologize if you find this boring,” he says to her late in the day.

She smiles as she places a hand upon his arm. “Not at all,” she says. She directs the merchants to charge all payments to her estate. It makes Fenris shy, hesitant in his purchases. It only makes her want to buy him more. As if such things could earn her a place in his thoughts.

He arrives early the next morning. Hawke answers the door, radiant in a pale blue dress as he steps inside. “I’ve given the servants the day off,” she tells him. She does not mention how she also fired a kitchen maid. “I thought it would be best if we started this privately.”

“Whatever pleases you,” Fenris says. He carries a bag of all he needs, a large frame of canvas under his arms. She leads him to her study, the place of all books, and finds she has cleared away the couch. Indeed, a stool remains for him, as well as a table and a chair. She sits upon the chair, folding her hands together over the table as she watches him prepare.

“How would you like me?” She asks as he finishes. He almost balks at the question, but is quick to move, standing near to her. “Move me how you like,” she says and the first touch against her cheek is light, doubting. He turns her so that she is looking at a window, the sun illuminating her face. He twists the chair, shifts her arms, and straightens her back.

“I will do my best not to move and undo all your hard work,” she whispers to him as he leans near her, undoing the clasp of her necklace. That he places upon the hand which rests on the table. His eyes fall to the line of her throat, the way she swallows. The clock upon the wall ticks each passing second of silence as he sits upon the stool.

He lines her portrait in charcoal, a sketch of what he might do. Satisfied with it, he draws out his paint, his brushes. He pretends not to see her watching him from the corner of her eye. He looks at her often, leaning around the canvas, barely needing to look at it to paint her. Blue touches her brow, pink and gold upon her cheeks. He finds her looking away from the window more and more, studying him as he works. Eventually, she turns completely.

“Fenris,” she says, looking away from the window, earrings bouncing against her as she turns her head. She looks straight towards him, her gaze locked upon him. “Tell me what my thoughts are.”

Her eyes never leave his even as he moves from the stool, walks towards her. Face tilted upwards at him, his fingertips light upon her jaw. A storm rages in those eyes, raining and pouring, thundering endlessly. The freckles like stars, perfection upon perfection, and a delicately pink tongue wets red lips. Lightning strikes, her eyes flicker to his mouth. His fingers drift. His thumb moves over her bottom lip, over the top, both of them together. Her mouth opens, capturing his thumb, tongue swirling gently around it.

He can see the way her pulse beats quicker, the way her breathing grows heavier. He has taken that mask she wears, the mask intended for all others, and torn it asunder. He lays bare her thoughts, does not doubt his conclusion.

He bends forward, other hand at the back of the chair, his face close to hers. His thumb comes loose with a subtle pop, and her mouth stays slightly open, lips plump. Hair drifts over his forehead, and he hears the soft movement of her dress as she shifts. The hand that was on her jaw moves to her neck, fingers touching the nape of her, and she is helpless in his grasp. “You’re thinking of my lips upon your neck.” His fingers press against her skin just a little harder. “Of my lips against yours. Hands against you, touching in the way you want to be touched, giving you what I know you need,” Fenris murmurs in a low voice. “Lady Hawke.”

“You must call me Marian,” she says as she stands, staying close to him, her forehead pressed against his. “I know you want the same as I. Take it, then.” She tilts her head back, exposing her throat. Teeth against soft flesh, raising red, kissing it tender. Following it upwards, the edge of her jaw, her arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer. She craves his mouth, and pulls him to hers. Her lips are soft, moving against his, a hand winding in his hair.

His arm wraps around her, pulling him into her, forcing her to lean against him to stand. He pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, his tongue taking advantage of the newly found space. She tastes of fresh snow, a wine the likes of which he’s never had before. His hands on her shoulders, he turns her, presses her down against the table.

Her palms flatten against it, and her head turns to look at him from the corner of her eye. He is quick with the lacings, pulling them free until her dress hangs loosely. His hands move again on her shoulders, over her arms and her chest, pulling it from underneath her, until her dress pools upon the floor. The shift she wears underneath is light and thin, white and gold, able to see the freckles on her spine. Some needy greed in him moves his touch to her hair, taking out the pins, threading fingers through the uncurled braid. A river darkly spills over her and over the desk.

He straightens himself as his hands move upwards over her thighs, settle against her hips. She grinds backwards, rubbing against the growing hardness in his trousers. He pulls up her shift, drops to his knees. He’s presented with a glistening cunt and the soft dark curls around it. She quivers when he touches her, running a finger through wet folds. She mewls when he circles her clit, teasing endlessly, watching the subtle shift in her stance. He breathes warmth onto her, and he relishes the gasp she gives at the first touch of his tongue.

She tastes like honey, smells of arousal. She groans and stutters at the press of his tongue against her entrance. He is all too happy to lap at her sweetness, a hand moving up and down her leg. It shakes with the effort of standing, her fingertips pressing against wood, gasping as her chest heaves with breath. He rolls her clit between two fingers, feels her pulse around his tongue. He is already hard and aching, even more when she moans out his name. “Please,” she begs.

He rises to stand, hands slipping underneath her shift, pulling it up and over her head, casting it away from them. “I want to see your face,” he says, and she pushes herself up from the desk. She turns towards him, revealing all her splendor. Her breast sits neatly in his hand, nipple pink and pert. Her legs, still covered in high stockings, wrap around his waist, pull him closer. Her hands move between them, find the lacings of his trousers.

She licks her lips when she takes him in hand, wrapping around his cock. She gives him a few hard strokes while he seeks her mouth once again, tasting herself on his tongue. She sits at the very edge of that desk, the head of him running over her cunt. His hips move forward, wetting the underside of his cock upon her. She leans back, hands flat against the table once again. He reaches down, aligns himself with her, and pushes inside.

He moves achingly slowly, until he is buried inside her all the way to the hilt. One of her hands moves from the desk to his shoulder, gripping him tightly, her mouth open and gasping. She’s tight around his length, a warmth so fiery and so brilliantly her. Hair curls around her breasts, bounce against her as he begins to thrust in earnest. Her hand winds into his tunic, biting her bottom lip in an effort to silence herself.

He kisses her again, opening her to him. “I want to hear you,” he tells her, “Marian.” Her face is flushed as well as her chest, a healthy color, deepest arousal, only made more so by her name upon his lips. She leans forward, her hands on his back, splaying over shoulder blades, nails scratching against him. Her legs cling tightly to him, groaning as he moves inside her. A hand bruises upon her hip, the other moving over the curve of her spine, to her neck, at her jaw. He holds her still as he kisses her again.

“Marian,” he says and he can feel her tighten once more. His brow beads with sweat and it only makes his movements more magnificent to her eyes. His arms as they hold her, his hips as they rut, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He is growling with the feeling of her, needy kisses over and over. His breath is coming faster now, same as hers, and she can see the impatience in each thrust, and the way his shoulders square to center and hold himself back.

She has her hands in her own hair now, crying out his name as he presses a finger to the nub at her entrance. She is close, he can feel it, knows it. Her breath comes faster, her mouth opening wide with soundless gasps, and her hands clench into fists. He presses insistently, and thrusts inside her with fervor. He whispers her name and tells her how good she feels and that is all it takes for her to shout as her body is wracked with pleasure.

She tightens around his cock, wave after wave crashing into him, and her body writhes and raises off the desk. He bends down to her, an arm wrapping around her waist as he slams inside her with urgency. It does not take him long after she comes. The sight of her moving so beautifully for him does him in. He grunts with the effort of it, head pressing against her shoulder and fingers digging into skin as he only barely manages to slip from her, spilling his seed upon her belly.

He breathes heavy against her, his forehead pressing against hers. There are charcoal streaks upon her body now, stains that mark her as his, show the movements of his touch. “What do we do now?” He asks her. She takes his face tenderly in his hands, plants a soft kiss.

“Now you never finish my portrait.”

**Author's Note:**

> Huhuhu. Always happy to [talk at my tumblr.](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


End file.
